


The Work Outing

by OctoberSpirit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos Observes Things, Carlos is Also Protective of Cecil's Interns, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is Mostly Human, Cecil is Protective of His Interns, Desert Bluffs, Dorks, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, NVCR Outing, Post-Episode: e032 Yellow Helicopters, Radio Voices, Sportsmanlike Behavior is Not One of Cecil's Strong Points, Strexcorp, Tattooed Cecil, The Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, gershwin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/OctoberSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The new management is doing this employee get-together thing? And I was wondering if you’d maybe like to come with me? As my date?”</p>
<p>Strex throws a (mandatory) little shindig at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Work Outing

It’s about noon when Carlos stumbles to the door, groggy and scruffy and still in pajama pants. He shrugs on a lab coat and gropes for the doorknob, only to be greeted by a verbal onslaught, behind which stands Cecil, wringing his hands.

“Carlos! I hope I didn’t wake you! I just, um, had a question? The new management is doing this employee get-together thing? And I was wondering if you’d maybe like to come with me? As my date?” Cecil looks to the side, then peeks back at Carlos, his hands fluttering wild half-gestures. “It’s, um, at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex? Which I know is totally not a place you would go, anymore, which is totally understandable! But I promise we can stay as far away from lane five as you want, even if you just want to stand at the snack bar or linger awkwardly in the doorway, and I will linger right there with you all night, but I just found out about it, and—”

“Cecil,” says Carlos, before the auditory tidal wave can catch its second wind. Cecil immediately stops, freezing mid-flutter in a mildly unnatural pose. Carlos grabs him by the shoulders and gently shakes, until Cecil’s body untenses and starts to resemble its usual self, its hands darting up to encircle Carlos’ forearms. Cecil smiles. 

“Now,” says Carlos, “you were saying?”

Cecil inhales, one thumb stroking absent patterns on Carlos’ sleeve. His voice slips down its scale from nervous almost-tenor to a more neutral baritone. “The radio station is having a mandatory get-together at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. I will be there. I wanted to know if you would come with me?”

“Of course. When is it?”

Cecil blinks. Blinks twice. _“Really?”_

Carlos slides one hand up Cecil’s shoulder, fingertips brushing the edge of a tattoo where it peeks, curious, from Cecil’s collar. “Yes, really. I’m not letting you go alone.” Not to anything organized by Strex, and certainly not to the Desert Flower. “What kind of boyfriend would that make me?”

“A perfect one,” Cecil insists. He has certain issues with the word _boyfriend,_ particularly when Carlos says it. “No matter what. Perfect Carlos.”

“Perfect Cecil,” Carlos retaliates. He’s given up on dissuading the descriptor and taken instead to returning fire. “So when’s the party?”

“Saturday. Seven?”

“Saturday at seven it is. I’ll pick you up around six, six-thirty?”

Cecil wobbles. “Okay, Carlos.”

Carlos chuckles. “Okay, Cecil.”

-

The Desert Flower is somewhat crowded, to say the least.

Carlos finds himself staring perhaps more than he should, compiling a mental list of who he does and does not recognize. He doesn’t think NVCR has this many people on staff, but given the intern mortality rate… Maybe they hire a lot of backup? 

“Cecil,” murmurs Carlos, one hand drifting to the small of Cecil’s back, a protective and somewhat possessive gesture of which he is not in complete control. Cecil gives a full-body shiver. “Are all these people from the station?”

“Ummm, about half, I guess?” Cecil reaches for two blank nametags and a particularly creative non-writing utensil. His handwriting is precise and elegant, even in jotting both of their names on two rectangles of adhesive-backed paper. Carlos would love to obtain writing samples; Cecil, in his Night Valeian, non-logical way, gives inky form to the cadence of his Voice, puts a shape to its resonance, depth, and persuasion. The phenomenon is more than poetry, he is sure. There’s something solid in the observation. 

“Half?” echoes Carlos, taking his nametag. 

“Uh-huh,” says Cecil, affixing his own. He’s added a smiley face after the L. “It’s supposed to be like a teambuilding thing, with our sister station in Desert Bluffs.” His voice takes on a certain strain, deepening toward the end of the sentence. Sometimes, Carlos has noticed, Cecil’s Radio Voice will emerge as a warning to anything he perceives as a threat. It makes sense, given his place in the town. “So, you know. Their staff is here.”

“Ah,” says Carlos. “And the people in suits?”

“New management, I assume. They come out in public.”

“Weird,” says Carlos, though it’s weird that he thinks so. “Do you want some punch?”

Cecil beams. “I’d love some.”

Carlos keeps his hand at Cecil’s back as they maneuver through the milling crowd, trying not to jostle the interns. He doesn’t feel comfortable relinquishing contact, and it’s not just uneasiness over lane five. There’s something cautionary in the air, he thinks, as he ladles out two cups of orange punch. Cecil knocks his back like a shot.

“Let’s mingle,” he says, grimly determined. Carlos lets him lead the way through the crowd.

A few yards from the shoe rental desk, they come upon one of Cecil’s interns, whose face is pallid and drawn with terror. Carlos feels a jolt of panic; NVCR interns don’t frighten easily, and this one looks like she’s ready to faint. The source of her fear has an arm around her shoulder, well-tailored suit in sharp contrast to the standard casual intern-attire. Without hesitation, Cecil veers closer, entering their conversational bubble.

“Ah, speaking of Cecil!” says the Strex representative. “We were _just_ talking about you!” Her smile changes shape like a subtle reprimand, but her tone is light, familiar and jesting. “Fashionably late, I see, Mr. Palmer!”

Carlos slides his hand to Cecil’s hip, encircling his waist and drawing him closer. “My fault,” he says, which is mostly true.

The smile changes shape again, but this time its shift is less easily read. Carlos’ skin gives an uneasy prickle. “And you must be Cecil’s charming boyfriend! We’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Scientist.”

“Have you?” asks Cecil. His Voice is full-force, unshakably present. He draws an arm around Carlos in return, but the physicality seems like mere backup. Something insubstantial whispers against him.

“Of course!” The representative beams. Her nametag, Carlos notes, is filled in with a barcode. “Your broadcasts are simply _delightful,_ Cecil. I loved the one about your first date. So romantic! Your listeners must have been hooked; the approval rating was through the roof.”

Carlos frowns. “Approval rating?”

“Imagine that,” Cecil says lightly, but his focus appears to have shifted elsewhere. “Intern Isobel, not to interrupt your discussion, but I think they just brought out a garlic wing platter, and I know how much you _love_ garlic wings.” The intern startles, and Cecil darts her the shadow of a _look,_ his free hand shooing her toward the tables. “Wouldn’t want you to miss them. Go on, enjoy!”

The quaking intern oozes relief, not quite metaphorically, and pardons herself. The Strex representative smiles more broadly. “That’s just the kind of teambuilding we’re looking for! It’s great that you know your interns so well!”

“Absolutely!” says another voice, as a man sidles up with a plastic cup. “I try my best with our station’s interns, but it looks like you could give me some pointers!”

Carlos freezes and Cecil sets his shoulders, fake smile molding his Voice into cheer. “You must be Kevin,” Cecil says, offering out one hand to shake. “I do believe we met once before, although my memory is a little fuzzy. What with, you know, the portals and the sandstorm…”

“Oh yes,” says Kevin. “I was very distracted by the weather and the interdimensional travel, myself! I hope I didn’t come off as rude or anything!”

“Not at all,” soothes Cecil. His Voice sounds lower in contrast to Kevin’s—which, Carlos realizes like an electric shock, should perhaps be identified as a Voice, as well.

The Voice of Desert Bluffs. Cecil’s double.

Oh, god.

“Great!” Kevin is saying, an unsettling smile stretching over his face. Carlos sets a mental reminder to find and study Kevin’s broadcasts, particularly anything that corresponds with the sandstorm. He should have done it months ago, but hopefully it’s not urgent, yet. Kevin rocks on the balls of his feet like a mirror. “Since I’ve got you here, by the way! A little birdie told me that you are quite the bowler, Mr. Palmer!”

“Call me Cecil,” says Cecil, in his weird, Cecily way. “And I’m sure that little birdie was exaggerating. It’s been quite a while since I played in the league.”

“So modest!” Kevin says. “Well, I know I would be just _tickled_ to play a few frames with you, Cecil. What do you say? Care to lace up the old bowling shoes?”

Something twitches, disrupting the fall of Carlos’ lab coat, an incorporeal, agitated flick. Carlos hopes that nothing’s visibly manifested. “Oh, well,” says Cecil, his Voice smooth despite the locked set of his jaw, “if you insist, who am I to say no?”

“Cecil,” says Carlos.

“Just a nice, friendly game between colleagues,” says Kevin.

“Fantastic,” says Cecil. “Let me go rent some shoes.”

Kevin smiles more—impossibly—broadly, and waggles his index finger toward Carlos. “Try not to distract him! I’ll grab us a spot far away from lane five. Amazing broadcast, by the way! So genuine! My show is so professionally _dry_ in comparison!”

The Strex representative laughs and pats Kevin on the shoulder. “Oh, my! You boys have fun. Who doesn’t love a little friendly rivalry to start things off? You’ll have to let me know who wins.”

Cecil smiles. Kevin smiles.

Carlos tightens his arm around his boyfriend.

-

“Cecil, are you sure this is a good idea?”

Cecil straightens, testing the fit of his shoes. They sort of match his outfit, which is strange, but not surprising. “It probably isn’t,” he allows, “but I’m not really capable of turning down a challenge from Desert Bluffs.”

“It’s just—look, this is the guy from the sandstorm, right? The one that tried to kill you?”

Cecil makes a noncommittal noise, browsing a rack of multicolored bowling balls. Carlos presses on, undeterred. 

“I know you know there’s something weird going on with all this, beyond just the usual Night Vale weird, even if you can’t really talk about it. And he’s…like you. Your double.”

“My mirror,” Cecil murmurs.

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, and Cecil whimpers. “Right. I just don’t want you getting into some kind of pissing contest with the Voice of Desert Bluffs. You have a thing about Desert Bluffs. But we don’t know anything about Kevin, or Strex, or any of this, yet, and I…” He pauses, trying to voice his concern without coming off as overprotective. Cecil has not only grown up in Night Vale, but he has become a public figure in Night Vale, a living, breathing running commentary. He toes the line incessantly, pokes his nose into things that are none of his business, and has been known more than once to best a librarian in combat. Cecil can take care of himself. But he’s sometimes reckless, and Carlos wants to take care of him, too. “I just worry,” he finishes, somewhat lamely. His skills lie in science, not in words.

“Dear, sweet Carlos,” Cecil purrs, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. His tattoos are dark and splendid against his skin, and the same shade of purple as the bowling ball he’s chosen. “Thank you for worrying about me. I promise I’ll be careful. Just a few frames of bowling, then cake, then the ritual, and then we can go home, okay?”

“All right,” says Carlos, leaning in for a kiss. Cecil blushes and nearly drops his bowling ball. Carlos’ hands fly up to steady the thing. “For luck,” he says, “but be _careful,_ I mean it.”

“Oh, darling Carlos, what could possibly go wrong?”

-

Carlos tightens his grip on his beer, condensation running over his knuckles. He doesn’t drink often, but sometimes the occasion arises, and sometimes the occasion lingers for a while. This is one of the latter times; it’s through sheer willpower that Carlos is only on his second bottle.

“Come on come on come on,” Cecil chants, both hands waving left as he hops. The ball moves in a slow, lazy curve, and it’s impossible to tell if he’ll hit his mark or end up a few degrees short of the target. He is, as Kevin said, a fairly skilled bowler, but true to objection, just a bit rusty. Which would be fine, in a casual round, but unfortunately Kevin matches his skill. It’s been a tight race through the last two games, Cecil narrowly winning the first, and Kevin the second, just as narrowly. This game will determine the champion, so to speak.

Cecil’s ball veers into the gutter, missing the final pin by a whisper. 

_“Son of a hooded figure!”_ he shouts, gesticulating wildly as the screen logs his score. Carlos tightens his grip once again. “I swear to the _dog park,_ I am going to put this ball right through the—”

_“Cecil.”_

Cecil swivels, his lips pressed together, and gives Carlos an awkward, apologetic look. Kevin smiles and hops out of his chair, plucking up his bright orange bowling ball. Cecil sits down, and Kevin rolls a strike. Cecil’s face turns an odd, mottled color. 

“Cecil,” Carlos snaps, preemptive this time. Cecil says nothing, and they trade places once more.

Across the table, interns Miguel and Amanda give Carlos an identical look, sympathetic and understanding. To his right, Intern Neidra pats his arm twice. “You know how he is.”

“I know,” Carlos mumbles.

_“Oh hell yes!”_ says Cecil, rolling a strike. “Eat _that_ like a mandatory slice of Big Rico’s!”

“Oh my god,” Carlos groans. “I’m never going to see him again.”

“He’s probably fine,” says Intern Aya, returning to the table with two platters of wings. “At least he’s not on the air this time?”

Intern Tim laughs. “If he wins, though, it will be.”

Carlos offers a tight, trembling smile to the tableful of anxious interns. He feels a bit like a mother bird with a nest of uncertain, tightly-wound eggs. But the eggs aren’t his; the eggs are Cecil’s, and Cecil is busy flashing his feathers. Defending his territory. Cockfighting with Kevin.

Carlos needs another beer.

On the next frame, Kevin faces a split, and he stands for a moment with his ball at chest-level, contemplating the length of the lane. Cecil starts making chicken noises—the Night Vale version of chickens, that is, which sound similar to normal chickens in the same way Khoshekh sounds like a normal cat—then attempts to play innocent when Carlos glares. Kevin steps up and throws the ball with just a bit too much spin, missing both pins, then stomps his foot. “Darn,” he says, still wearing a smile, but his tone sends shivers down Carlos’ spine. Cecil jumps up and unleashes a spare.

“Sha _zam!”_

“Dios mío…”

When they hit the tenth frame, it still isn’t clear which of them will win, although Kevin’s score is up by two points. Carlos has no idea what to hope for, so he hunkers down in his plastic chair, surrounded by chirping interns, and waits. 

Kevin whips out a spare, and Cecil strikes twice.

“Drat!” says Kevin. “What a great game!”

“Oh yeah!” shouts Cecil, determined to win gracefully. “Suck on _that,_ Desert Bluffs! Night Vale victory dance, am I right!” 

Carlos feels his lab coat billow as he leaps from the table and embraces his boyfriend, in a manner he hopes will appear celebratory. “Cecil Gershwin Palmer,” he hisses. “You stop that right now before they _take you away and replace you with Steve Carlsberg,_ do you understand me?”

Cecil gives an indignant, high-pitched squeak. “Carlos!”

“Shut up.” Carlos tilts his head and kisses Cecil, mainly to physically enforce the command. Behind him, a few of the interns catcall. Carlos flushes and pulls away, only to find Kevin beside them, creepily close and beaming outrageously. Cecil blinks out of a kissing-haze, and Carlos—embarrassingly—jumps back a few inches.

“I had a lot of fun!” says Kevin. “You’re so _colorful,_ Cecil, I just love it to pieces!”

“Oh,” says Cecil, “you know how it is. The spirit of competition, right?”

Kevin slaps Cecil’s back, which Carlos knows Cecil hates. Fortunately, he doesn’t react. “We’ll have to play again,” Kevin says. “Maybe make it a regular thing! These Strex-sponsored meet-ups are such a blast. Or we could do leagues! I’ll shoot you an email!”

“Definitely,” Cecil says, back to his Voice, which is slightly too warm and smooth for sincerity. “I’ll keep an eye on the station email. Do you like cat videos? I’ll send you some links.”

“Neat!” beams Kevin. Carlos grabs Cecil’s arm.

“We should probably get going,” he interjects. “I have a few projects set up at the lab, time-sensitive, you know…”

“Oh, of course!” says Kevin. “I’d never stand in the way of science! If you’re as smart as Cecil says you are, I bet Strex will come knocking at your lab any day, now!” He hefts his bowling ball beneath his left arm, holding out his right hand to shake. “It was great meeting you, Mr. Scientist! Nice to see you again, Cecil!”

Cecil smiles and shakes his double’s hand. Carlos is momentarily taken in by their tattoos, mirrored sleeves with subtle differences in the designs that swirl beneath layers of skin. Kevin’s are golden where Cecil’s are dark, as though daylight is reaching to greet the night. Between the doubles-phenomenon and the yet-unknown origin of Cecil’s tattoos, Carlos itches to study them both, but he forces the urge to the back of his brain. Right now, he just wants to get Cecil home.

“Likewise,” says Cecil. “Goodnight, Kevin. Goodnight.”

Carlos bundles Cecil out the door without even letting him retie his shoes, bowing out of cake and rituals while trailing a handful of jittery interns. They all take a second to breathe in the parking lot, shivering slightly against the breeze, and then Cecil bids them a soft farewell and everyone scatters to different cars.

As Carlos glances in the rearview mirror, he catches his reflection’s gaze, shares a fond, long-suffering look with himself. Cecil is slumped, chagrined, in the passenger seat, where Carlos is prepared to leave him until they arrive at Carlos’ place. Then they can talk, really talk about this, about the doubles and tattoos and Strex Corp and Kevin, about all the things they still need to discuss.

Halfway home, Carlos chuckles, the memory of Cecil’s cursing revisited. Cecil looks up, surprised at the sound.

“You’re a brave, reckless, charming idiot, and I definitely love you,” Carlos explains.

Cecil stays quiet for a few seconds, his brain almost audibly processing the words. Carlos keeps his eyes on the road, but he feels Cecil’s stare, hears the pleasant blush color his voice. “I love you, too,” Cecil responds, albeit unnecessarily.

They spend the rest of the drive holding hands, their glasses reflecting the light of the dashboard as the radio hums with patches of static and the occasional skritch of small claws on linoleum.

**Author's Note:**

> I will have you know that I tried really hard to refrain from scattering ball-related innuendos throughout this entire fic. You're welcome.
> 
> Inspired by the two Caitlins at the irl WTNV meet-up yesterday. We went bowling. Not on lane five.
> 
> I am on le tumblr at octoberspirit.tumblr.com if you'd like to make ball jokes with me. Hurr hurr.
> 
> _Carlos watched as Cecil ran his fingers over the multicolored balls, stroking some of them, cupping others between his palms. Finally, he selected one for himself, then placed Carlos' hand--so gently--upon another. "That's right," Cecil murmured. "This one's perfect for beginners. Just ease your fingers into the holes."_
> 
> _"It's tight," whispered Carlos. "Let me try yours."_
> 
> XD God dammit I don't even.


End file.
